In a desert, lost people deprived of shelter and water hallucinate. Minds deteriorate and perceptions dim to desert dementia. The Pandemic did that to older people. Social and physical loss has its costs.
Desert Decisions
I was becoming uneasy with my sister-in-law’s daily description when visiting the rehabilitation hospital of Aunty Pam’s behaviour (refer back story: https://carolinmparadis.com/2024/02/20/desert-strangers/). Dorothée blamed an environment of barely present nursing staff. To her, the inattention and lack of interaction proved itself out.
Pam’s demeanor moved in the mornings from that of a surly, wizened gnome fearfully accusing the hospital staff of wanting to steal her money to a more reasonable person in the afternoon. One that Dorothée recognized after several hours of coaxing the real Pam back from a strange underworld. I wasn’t so sure loving-attention was the sole cure, but I wasn’t the one visiting every day.
Dorothée was the one navigating the hospital hierarchy, with a goal of meeting the medical team assigned to Pam. We needed an assessment of her condition, a prognosis, and next steps for ongoing care. But the team met weekly. The last group meeting had occurred the day before Dorothée’s first visit. Missed by a day, we didn’t have a week or more to hang about. Pam needed our help now, while we were in Montreal. Our lives and commitments were in Toronto. Soon I would need to re-attend to my small client business, and my family. And Dorothée had a veteran husband with PTSD who relied on her for support, plus two aging dogs who demanded the same amount of attention.
Desert Disposition
I worried about Pam’s wobbly mental state. There were significant life-changing decisions pending. My mother’s weekly conversations with Pam had left her feeling reassured Pam’s affairs were in order. A year earlier, I also had felt reassured after a telephone discussion. She had asked me to manage the disposition of her apartment contents once she passed.
“Aunty Pam, I’m happy to help but please let your notary and the building management know. You need to make your wishes clear and to give them my contact information. Otherwise, they won’t allow me into your apartment when the time comes.”
When she died, she wanted to assure there would be someone to appreciate her treasures. “I have some good pieces, and you can see who amongst you kids may want them.”
Pam had traveled extensively in her younger years, bringing home signature items to commemorate her experiences. Besides her apartment furniture, and particularly a teak dining room set she highly valued, I presumed the “good pieces” were her travel collections.
My impression was that Pam had organized her affairs with a trusted notary she had known for years. And believing her notary was the current assigned Power of Attorney I made efforts to contact the woman. It was likely Pam would need an assisted care living arrangement. If she couldn’t make those decisions herself, Pam’s legal representative would need to step into the breach.
Desert Apartment
It was almost a week before the notary responded. I had to call her office four times with a rising urgency left in each telephone message.
Before that, Dorothée connected with the medical caregivers at the rehab hospital. Unsurprisingly, they were saying Pam could not return to her apartment without assisted living support.
From our evening strategy sessions, we determined the need to discuss options with Pam. From Dorothée’s hospital visits it was soon clear the needed conversation with Pam was not getting any closer. It wasn’t just Pam’s desert dementia, but her severe hearing loss. Her hearing aids weren’t working well. My unease grew.
One afternoon after another frustrated and unanswered call to the notary, I sat on Pam’s couch worrying. Looking around, I pondered the strangeness of her apartment. Not for the first time, its spartan appearance struck me. Her furnishings were minimal and, except for the couch I was sitting on, mostly old. I couldn’t see anywhere the sculptures or art from her travels, and looking around I had discovered nothing noteworthy.
Pam had signaled her permission to Dorothée to go through her apartment contents. “You girls do what you need to keep things in order,” she directed one afternoon in a surprising moment of clarity.
Desert Dissipation
To better help and understand Pam’s situation, I had been reviewing her records and cataloguing her belongings, but had found nothing exceptional. What I found exceptional was the general neglect. The place was clean, but peeling paint suggested the walls hadn’t received a lick of paint in years. An incongruously positioned floor mat I determined was to hide displaced floor tiles. The plain melamine kitchen cupboards, once upon a time white, were now yellowed and ill hanging. The tiny ceramic bathroom floor tiles were a style reminiscent of the nineteen-sixties and some had lifted. No better was the bathroom countertop. Decades had passed with no updates or renovations. Even her regaled teak furniture showed signs of weathering and the dining room table legs wobbled.
Things didn’t tally; the desert nature of her home. I understood that at age ninety-one, Pam’s abilities and confidence had waned in recent years. But the needed work pre-dated to when she was capable.
The only redeeming quality of her apartment was the wall-to-wall windows that lined her living room and bedroom walls. As I sat on the couch, I closed my eyes and basked in the stream of sun lit warmth, wearily trying to release my worries as I prayed.
“Please, Lord. Help us sort things out with Pam. We need your help.”
To be continued…